5013 


— -<* 


*r;.-**' 


XX  : 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


NEITHER  DORKING 
NOR  THE  ABBEY 


NEITHER  DORKING 
NOR  THE  ABBEY 


BY 

J.  M.  BARRIE 


■ 

•     ■ 


CHICAGO 
BROWNE'S  BOOKSTORE 

igi2 


■ 


V^OTE 

TN  England  recently  there  died  a  great 
•*■  man  —  the  greatest  of  his  day.  Imme- 
diately there  arose  much  vain  contention 
as  to  whether  or  no  his  dust  should  be 
given  resting  place  among  that  of  his  peers 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  Finally  came  the 
decision  that  Westminster  was  not  to  be  so 
honored;  and  the  urn  containing  all  of 
him  that  had  outlived  the  fire  was  placed 
in  the  sunny  graveyard  of  Dorking  village. 
Looking  down  toward  it  from  the  long 
level  summit  of  Box  Hill — his  hill, — 
with  the  sunlight  glinting  from  its  mar- 
bles and  along  the  silver  Mole  that  winds 
threadlike  beside  it,  the  little  cemetery  seems 
almost  a  living  cheerful  thing  in  the  dark 
green  of  the  surrounding  landscape.  Surely 


fR 


■ 


474258 


here,  if  anywhere,  was  appropriate  resting- 
place  for  this  great  lover  of  life  and  joy. 

The  tribute  to  Meredith  contained  in 
the  following  pages,  perhaps  the  most  fit- 
ting and  beautiful  of  any  inspired  by  his 
death,  was  originally  published  in  the 
London  "Westminster  Gazette"  for  May 
26,  1909. 


NEITHER  DORKING 
NOR  THE  ABBEY 

ALL  morning  there  had  been  a 
little  gathering  of  people  out- 
side the  gate.  The  funeral  coach 
came,  and  a  very  small  thing  was 
placed  in  it  and  covered  with 
flowers.  One  plant  of  the  wall- 
flower in  the  garden  would  have 
covered  it.  The  coach  took  the 
road  to  Dorking,  followed  by  a 
few  others,  and  in  a  moment  or  two 
all  seemed  silent  and  deserted,  the 
cottage,  the  garden,  and  Box  Hill. 
The  cottage  was  not  deserted,  as 

[7] 


they  knew  who  now  trooped  into 
the  round  in  front  of  it,  their  eyes 
on  the  closed  door.  They  were  the 
mighty  company,  his  children,  — 
Lucy  and  Clara  and  Rhoda  and 
Diana  and  Rose  and  old  Mel  and 
Roy  Richmond  and  Adrian  and  Sir 
Willoughby  and  a  hundred  others, 
and  they  stood  in  line  against  the 
box-wood,  waiting  for  him  to  come 
out.  Each  of  his  women  carried  a 
flower,  and  the  hands  of  all  his  men 
were  ready  for  the  salute. 

In  the  room  on  the  right,  in  an 
armchair  which  had  been  his  home 
for  years  —  to  many  the  throne  of 
letters  in  this  country  —  sat  an  old 
man,  like  one  forgotten  in  an  empty 

[8] 


house.  When  the  last  sound  of  the 
coaches  had  passed  away  he  moved 
in  his  chair.  He  wore  grey  clothes 
and  a  red  tie,  and  his  face  was 
rarely  beautiful,  but  the  hair  was 
white  and  the  limbs  were  feeble, 
and  the  wonderful  eyes  dimmed, 
and  he  was  hard  of  hearing.  He 
moved  in  his  chair,  for  something 
was  happening  to  him,  and  it  was 
this,  old  age  was  falling  from  him. 
This  is  what  is  meant  by  death  to 
such  as  he,  and  the  company  wait- 
ing knew.  His  eyes  became  again 
those  of  the  eagle,  and  his  hair  was 
brown,  and  the  lustiness  of  youth 
was  in  his  frame,  but  still  he  wore 
the  red  tie.     He  rose,  and  not  a 

[9] 


moment  did  he  remain  within  the 
house,  for  "golden  lie  the  meadows, 
golden  run  the  streams,"  and  "  the 
fields  and  the  waters  shout  to  him 
golden  shouts."  He  flung  open 
the  door,  as  they  knew  he  would  do 
who  were  awaiting  him,  and  he 
stood  there  looking  at  them,  a 
general  reviewing  his  troops.  They 
wore  the  pretty  clothing  in  which 
he  had  loved  to  drape  them;  they 
were  not  sad  like  the  mourners  who 
had  gone,  but  happy  as  the  forget- 
me-nots  and  pansies  at  their  feet 
and  the  lilac  overhead,  for  they 
knew  that  this  was  his  coronation 
day.  Only  one  was  airily  in  mourn- 
ing, as  knowing  better  than  the 
[10] 


others  what  fitted  the  occasion,  the 
Countess  de  Saldar.  He  recog- 
nized her  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things  with  a  bow.  The  men  sal- 
uted, the  women  gave  their  flowers 
to  Dahlia  to  give  to  him,  so  that 
she  should  have  his  last  word,  and 
he  took  their  offerings  and  passed 
on.  They  did  not  go  with  him, 
they  went  their  ways  to  carry  his 
glory  through  the  world. 

Without  knowing  why,  for  his 
work  was  done,  he  turned  to  the 
left,  passing  his  famous  cherry- 
blossom,  and  climbed  between 
apple-trees  to  a  little  house  of  two 
rooms,  whence  most  of  that  noble 
company  had  sprung.  He  went 
[11] 


there  only  because  he  had  gone  so 
often,  and  this  time  the  door  was 
locked  ;  he  did  not  know  why  nor 
care.  He  came  swinging  down  the 
path,  singing  lustily,  and  calling  to 
his  dogs,  his  dogs  of  the  present 
and  the  past ;  and  they  yelped  with 
joy,  for  they  knew  they  were  once 
again  to  breast  the  hill  with  him. 

He  strode  up  the  hill  whirling 
his  staff,  for  which  he  had  no  longer 
any  other  use.  His  hearing  was 
again  so  acute  that  from  far  away 
on  the  Dorking  road  he  could  hear 
the  rumbling  of  a  coach.  There 
came  to  him  somehow  a  knowledge 
(it  was  the  last  he  ever  knew  of 
little  things)  that  people  had  been 
[12] 


at  variance  as  to  whether  a  casket 
of  dust  should  be  laid  away  in  one 
hole  or  in  another,  and  he  flung 
back  his  head  with  the  old  glorious 
action,  and  laughed  a  laugh  "  broad 
as  a  thousand  beeves  at  pasture." 
Box  Hill  was  no  longer  deserted. 
When  a  great  man  dies  —  and  this 
was  one  of  the  greatest  since 
Shakespeare  —  the  immortals  await 
him  at  the  top  of  the  nearest  hill. 
He  looked  up  and  saw  his  peers. 
They  were  all  young,  like  himself. 
He  waved  the  staff  in  greeting. 
One,  a  mere  stripling,  "  slight  un- 
speakably," detached  himself  from 
the  others,  crying  gloriously  as  he 
recognized   his    master,   "  Here 's 

[13] 


the  fellow  I  have  been  telling  you 
about  1 "  and  ran  down  the  hill  to 
be  the  first  to  take  his  hand.  In 
the  meantime  an  empty  coach  was 
rolling  on  to  Dorking. 


[14] 


G.M. 

1828— igog. 

T^ORTY  years  back,  when  much  had  place 
■*■     That  since  has  perished  out  of  mind, 
I  heard  that  voice  and  saw  that  face. 

He  spoke  as  one  afoot  ivill  wind 
A  morning  horn  ere  men  awake; 
His  note  was  trenchant,  turning  kind. 

He  was  of  those  whose  wit  can  shake 

And  riddle  to  the  very  core 

The  counterfeits  that  Time  will  break.   .   .  . 

Of  late,  when  we  two  met  once  more, 
The  luminous  countenance  and  rare 
Shone  just  as  forty  years  before. 

So  that,  when  now  all  tongues  declare 
His  shape  unseen  by  his  green  hill, 
I  scarce  believe  he  sits  not  there. 

No  matter.     Further  and  further  still 
Through  the  -world's  vaporous  vitiate  air 
His  words  wing  on  —  as  live  words  will. 

Thomas  Hardy. 
May,  igog. 


_  7  3  0 


t 


PLELA?*  DO  NOT   REMOVE 
THIS  BOOK  CARD 


^tUBRARYOc 

£?    1     i^  £ 


University  Research  Library 


l» 


.UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  370  589 


■ 


~7" 


